Miles To Go: The Box
by WHCnelson
Summary: Prelude and Intro to Space Above and Beyond. A Back Story about McQueen before he commanded the 127th and the 58th Marine Air Cav Squadron.
1. Chapter 1

**The Box**

**AN:**The characters and situations of the TV program "SPACE: Above and Beyond are the creations of Glen Morgan and James Wong, Fox Broadcasting and Hard Eight Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. This story was originally created by Becky Ratiff back in early 1996 and is used with her permission. You can find the original story and others at her own website of _**http:// buckeyebelle.tripod .com/fanfic.html**_.

2059 Macaulay's World

McQueen checked his LIDAR again, nothing. The pirates they'd chased into the asteroid belt were lying low, but he could feel them out there. He and Collins were playing a deadly game of tag, using the asteroids as cover just as the pirates were doing.

Collins' voice came over the radio. She sounded, if anything, a little bored. "Black Knight, this is Rattler, I think they've decided not to come out and play any more. I'm going to run that wide place, see if I can draw some fire, you on me?"

"Roger that, Rattler. Watch that big iceball at the end."

"That's a roger." Her Hammerhead swung over and she dropped into the slot, they hoped the pirates would figure she had got lost from her wingman and take the bait. Sure enough, two of them did. Collins made straight for the ice asteroid that McQueen had warned her about... unfortunately for the first pirate, he hadn't heard the warning. Collins' SA-43 danced gracefully between the iceball and a huge chunk of rock. The SA-38 on her six swung wide to miss the iceball, then he saw the rock straight ahead of him and pulled up desperately--too late. The 38 slammed into the rock, several tons of missile, and exploded. McQueen figured, trust Collins to find a way to save the taxpayers the expense of a trial without getting herself court-martialed. The woman was as vicious as the pirates she fought.

McQueen dropped in on the second one's six and switched his radio to the frequency they'd monitored the pirates using earlier, ordered the pirate to surrender. The response was almost a scream, "Dave, I've got one on my tail, I can't shake this son of a bitch! They got Chris! I need some help out here!"

"Don't piss your pants," Dave Stuart's voice replied. "I've got him."

An alarm told McQueen that Stuart wasn't lying, someone had a lock on him. He dumped chaff and made for a narrow opening between two rocks. "Rattler, I've found the other one."

"Roger that, I'm on my way."

McQueen's LIDAR showed the third pirate had fired two missiles, one of them exploded harmlessly in the chaff but the other one was still on him. He made straight for the pair of rocks, fired his maneuvering jets at the last possible second. The missile couldn't match his turn, it sent a shower of debris out into space as it blew the asteroid to fragments.

The Hammerhead rocked with an impact and his board lit up in a string of red lights. Having fired on them, Stuart had made himself fair game for Collins. She locked on the 38 and fired a single missile. "Sayonara, sweetheart!" She said with a great deal of satisfaction as the 38 blew apart. She addressed the last one. "Honey, I guess I've got to give you a chance to surrender. But why don't you shoot at me instead? I really wish you would..." That was enough for him.

McQueen ran a damage control check. "Rattler, can you handle this guy?"

"Sure can, why?"

"I took some shrapnel damage from that last near miss, I'm going to have to set her down on-world."

"Roger that, Black Knight. Do you want me to follow you down?"

He checked the boards again. That would mean letting the pirate go. "Negative, just send me a ride."

"Roger."

Macaulay's World is a cold and arid place and is the fourth rock from the sun which is called Timorra. It was marginally an Earth-type planet, with a thin oxygen/nitrogen atmosphere. As far as McQueen could see in any direction, the featureless plain was covered by a sea of grass. A chill wind blew constantly, already it had discovered it could whisper and moan around his Hammerhead. The sky above was leaden gray, as if it could not be bothered to rain or to clear up either one. This was an old and dying world. Only the rich deposits of radioactive ores in the mountains to the south of this bleak plain had given it a name instead of a number. He set up his radio beacon and then investigated the immediate area.

He found no signs of inhabitation, no animals larger than insect size, and no water source. When he got back to the plane, he set up his evaporator unit before he did anything else to make camp. It would take it a while to fill, and it would be nice to make a pot of hot coffee when he finished getting his camp together. He didn't expect a rescue before the next morning at the earliest. By the time a SAR team got organized it would be dark here. There would be no sense in taking the added risk of a night extraction. Spending the night here would be an inconvenience and nothing worse. He expected the temperature to drop below freezing after sunset, but his flight suit and sleeping bag would be warm enough.

There were no lengthening shadows as evening came to Macaulay's World, what sunlight managed to filter through the cloud cover was too weak and diffuse to cast shadows. Rather, the light slowly faded, as if a curtain had gently been drawn across the sky from horizon to horizon. When only a faint glow of distant sunset remained in the western sky, McQueen took a final walk around the perimeter of his camp, then shook out his sleeping bag. In the scant shelter of his crippled fighter, he watched as the last embers of sunset faded, and night settled in. The wind continued its endless journey over the plains, whispering in the grass and sighing around the plane as if it were searching for something. Alone in the darkness, it was easy to imagine voices in the wind. McQueen tended not to give much credibility to theories of an afterlife, or of ghosts. He wouldn't have minded being proven wrong, but if anything was out there, it would have to provide more concrete proof of its presence than that.

As if in answer to his challenge, he heard a faint _snap_. That_ hadn't_ been the wind. He rolled out of the sleeping bag towards the only cover in sight, behind the landing gear of his plane. Something stung his leg as he reached for his service automatic. He slapped at the sting--and found a dart. He had time to wonder just whose hands he'd fallen into, before the drug took over and he collapsed, all but paralyzed. His last thought before the darkness claimed him was that he had to warn the SAR team somehow. He forced shaking, nerveless fingers to close around the dart, pulled it free and wedged it in the wheel beside him. Then awareness faded into oblivion.

McQueen wasn't sure if he was really awake at first, it was pitch black and the drug still fogged his remaining senses. For a time, he drifted between sleep and waking. Then he heard a sound that shocked him to full consciousness. AI chatter.

He tried to get his feet under him, found out he was bound hand and foot with thin cord, or wire--whatever it was, it didn't give, and finally cut into his wrist. He forced himself to stop struggling and lie still when he realized there was blood running down his left hand. Carefully repressed memories started rising from the shadowed depths of the past, like little fishes darting momentarily into the light. His heartbeat hammered against his ribs and thundered in his ears.

He heard the AI modem again -- closer now -- and almost cried out. Where _was_ the damned thing!

He made himself take a deep breath, let it out slowly. Calm. Control. He was doing the silicates' work for them, at this rate! Whatever he'd fallen into, panic was not the state in which to face it. Once he focused on the silicate and placed where it was -- a couple of meters away, to his right -- the terror became a manageable thing. Reality as opposed to a nightmare.

He was lying on cold metal, up against a metal bulkhead. The AI moved -- away from him, thank God -- and behind where it had been sitting was a small yellow telltale light. He knew what that was, the status light on an evaporator unit. This was the main bay of an ISSCV. Not a space worthy one, however, he could feel a bitterly cold draft from somewhere. He couldn't see, but he suspected the ports were broken out.

A few minutes later, there was another burst of modem noise, and then the silicate opened the hatch. He got a brief look at it in the dim glow from the emergency light. It was a small female model; it had long light brown hair. It was wearing a short cotton-print dress and a pair of raggedy, string less sneakers. He thought it must have been a secretarial or housekeeping model; it didn't look very imposing in that brief light. It had his pistol in its belt, however, and that tended to equalize the odds considerably. It slammed the hatch down and the dark silence closed in again. McQueen tried to stay awake, but the drug was still working itself out of his system and he drifted in and out for a while. Lying in one enforced position in the cold soon became such misery, however, that after a while he had no trouble keeping his eyes open.

Eventually, the morning light came stark and gray through the view ports...broken out, as he had suspected. The bay was really just a stripped down cargo box, with only the galley and two bunks left of whatever amenities it had once possessed. From where he lay on aft, the box had been refitted with two rows of wooden storage bins, a narrow corridor ran between them. A clothesline was strung across the bay. On it hung a faded pair of jeans, a somewhat larger black skirt, and two blouses. All of the clothing was old and worn, but oddly enough for AI's, it was clean and neatly mended. The whole area, for that matter, was shipshape, which surprised him. From what McQueen had seen of AI's, most of them didn't care what kind of mess they made.

The hatch came up and two AI's came in, the one he'd seen before and another one, also female, willowy with long silky black hair. An argument was obviously in progress, from the looks the two were exchanging. The new one came over and looked down at him, pointing and exclaiming. The first replied with a short loud burst of sound -- and stamped its foot. The brunette threw its hands up, obviously conceding the argument against its better judgment. Finally it decided to speak English. "My totally glitched friend here caused us all a lot of trouble by bringing you here. I'd have left you where I found you, but -- no! Now I don't have the slightest idea what I should do with you. I don't want any trouble. If we turn you loose, do I have _any_ kind of an assurance you won't try to sneak back here and kill us both?"

McQueen asked, "Does my word count as an assurance?"

She said, "I've never met a carbonite whose word I could trust."

"The same goes for me with AI's," he replied.

She looked back and forth between him and the other AI. "I am making the mistake of my life," she muttered. She pulled a knife from her belt. The sight of a knife in an AI's hand set off reactions that left McQueen literally shaking. He clenched his jaw to keep from screaming as she knelt by him...and cut the cord binding his ankles. Then she disappeared behind him and cut his wrists free. It wasn't until she moved away from him that he could bring himself to move. Aching in every muscle, he pulled his arms around in front of him and got to his feet.

He looked back and forth between the two of them. "What are you doing out here?"

The first AI said, "We belonged to a couple of prospectors. They were working a claim in the mountains. We were jumped by pirates and the transport was damaged. They left us here with the cargo box when they couldn't fix it. You're the only one we've seen since."

"You're just going to let me go," he said skeptically. "Why didn't you just kill me when you had the chance?"

Hastily the second one warned him, "Don't go getting any ideas that we still can't! Marcy has your gun, remember -- just you _think_ about bothering us and see how fast we'll use it! We just want you out of here -- there's the door!"

Unable to believe his luck, McQueen made for the hatch. He was going to catch hell for losing the automatic, but he wasn't stupid enough to try to get it back, either. Well out of his reach, Tina watched him very suspiciously as he opened the hatch and backed away from the cargo box. Once the AI was sure he was far enough down the ramp that he couldn't easily grab her, she darted over and slammed the hatch. He heard the lock shoot home. Good riddance to you, too, he thought. Expecting a bullet in the back every second, he put some distance between him and the cargo box -- and didn't stop until he was well out of sight of the AIs' lair.

Once he was sure he was clear, and not being followed, he paused and looked around. The sea of grass went on for kilometers... ...in every direction... ...and he had no idea where he was in relation to his plane.

McQueen realized he was, as Ross would have put it, in real deep serious. He searched his pockets, the AIs had taken his gun and k-bar but they had missed the butterfly knife in his pocket. As far as supplies went, he had a couple of ration bars in another pocket.

Water was the real worry. Whatever the AIs had used to knock him out had dehydrated him badly. He was lucky that was all it had done, he knew all too well what a supposedly "safe" drug could do to an In Vitro. But if he didn't find a source of water soon, it wouldn't be very long until he'd be too weak to look for one. He had been captured just after dark, and had regained consciousness several hours before dawn. Macaulay's World, he remembered, had a day of about 20 Earth hours in length. So he couldn't have been out longer than four or five hours. He wasn't sure how strong that little AI had been, but probably not much more than it looked. Those models usually weren't designed as field hands...it would have had some trouble carrying him. He couldn't be too far from the plane, it was just a matter of going about finding it in a logical manner.

McQueen started a pattern search, using his compass to keep direction. He was careful not to pass too near the AIs' cargo box in that first circle. After that, he expanded the area of his search slightly each time.

It was fortunate that he had the compass, because it would have been nearly impossible to travel a straight line without it. The plain and the overcast sky were both all but featureless, no point on the horizon distinguished itself as a landmark. This had to be the most singularly monotonous place McQueen had ever seen in his life...even Omicron Draconis had been blessed with some occasional variation in the scenery! Only the elapsed time along each compass heading kept him from giving in to the nagging doubts that he was completely lost out here.

He concentrated on keeping a steady pace, scanning the horizon constantly for any sign of the SA-43, on this flat ground it should be visible at some distance. But there was nothing so far.

Thirst became at first a constant irritant, then gradually a real hardship. By mid-afternoon, he had to stop for a rest at each corner of his search pattern.

Something crackled underfoot, he looked down to see what it was...his sleeping bag.

McQueen's first thought was that the wind had picked it up and carried it. But then he saw the three telltale areas of flattened grass that marked where the SA-43's landing gear had been sitting.

If the SAR teams from the _JFK_ had found his plane, they would have set up a search base here. He would have been located by now.

The only other possibility...was the pirates. A captured Hammerhead...even a damaged one...would be a prize to them. Something to help make up for the loss of three planes and three pilots. That they could leave one of the people who'd cost them so dearly stranded here to die was only a bonus.

His condenser unit! He searched carefully through the grass until he found it. Someone had kicked it over, the condenser was cracked. But the collection container was fine, and it was almost full. That liter of water was life.

He considered how strictly he should ration it. He wouldn't be getting any more, he had no way to repair or recharge the unit. On the other hand, back on Omicron Draconis, people had been found dead of dehydration with water still in their canteens. He decided he would drink half of it, and wait at least a few hours before he got into it again. If he hadn't seen any sign of rescue by then, he would be more careful with the other half.

It would be best to wait right here for his rescuers. Even though the plane and its radio were gone, they had the telemetry he'd been transmitting all the way down. Collins would have been recording that from orbit, and they would be able to locate him easily enough.

The question was, where were they? The _JFK_ had plenty of time to get things together, SAR teams should be on-world by now.

Alone on the windblown grasslands, doubts he could have ignored elsewhere refused to be silenced. What if the decision had been made that one tank wasn't worth rescuing? He had always been able to count on the 127th's professionalism even though he knew full well how some of them felt about him personally. They wouldn't have willingly left a member of the squadron behind. But the decision could have been taken out of their hands. Admiral Booth had no use for In Vitroes.

It didn't matter, he told himself. No matter how much Booth would have relished the idea of marooning him here, he wouldn't risk his career to do it. The SAR teams would be coming.

McQueen recovered his sleeping bag, it made a good place to sit and wait. The time passed by even more slowly now that he didn't have the goal of searching for his plane, but another couple of hours came and went. He idly watched some beetle-sized creatures building a burrow a few meters away.

Suddenly, there was a roar overhead as a fighter went up, gaining velocity and altitude, invisible in the clouds. The engine was running very rough, but it sure sounded like a SA-43, not one of the pirates' 38's. The boom as it went ballistic sent the "insects" he'd been watching diving to the bottom of their hole.

If that was the pirates test-flying his plane, he wished them luck with it--all bad. They had apparently got it flying, anyway.

He looked back where it had come from, and suddenly realized something. That had been near the AIs' cargo box. And there was a thin line of dark smoke rising into the sky on the horizon.

If the pirates had got his plane flying, he meant to get it back. And if he was stranded here, the condenser unit in the AIs' cargo box was the only source of water he knew of. Either way, he had to find out what was going on back there.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Macaulay's World is a cold and arid place and is the fourth rock from the sun which is called Timorra. It was marginally an Earth-type planet, with a thin oxygen/nitrogen atmosphere. As far as McQueen could see in any direction, the featureless plain was covered by a sea of grass. A chill wind blew constantly, already it had discovered it could whisper and moan around his Hammerhead. The sky above was leaden gray, as if it could not be bothered to rain or to clear up either one. This was an old and dying world. Only the rich deposits of radioactive ores in the mountains to the south of this bleak plain had given it a name instead of a number. He set up his radio beacon and then investigated the immediate area.

He found no signs of inhabitation, no animals larger than insect size, and no water source. When he got back to the plane, he set up his evaporator unit before he did anything else to make camp. It would take it a while to fill, and it would be nice to make a pot of hot coffee when he finished getting his camp together. He didn't expect a rescue before the next morning at the earliest. By the time a SAR team got organized it would be dark here. There would be no sense in taking the added risk of a night extraction. Spending the night here would be an inconvenience and nothing worse. He expected the temperature to drop below freezing after sunset, but his flight suit and sleeping bag would be warm enough.

There were no lengthening shadows as evening came to Macaulay's World, what sunlight managed to filter through the cloud cover was too weak and diffuse to cast shadows. Rather, the light slowly faded, as if a curtain had gently been drawn across the sky from horizon to horizon. When only a faint glow of distant sunset remained in the western sky, McQueen took a final walk around the perimeter of his camp, then shook out his sleeping bag. In the scant shelter of his crippled fighter, he watched as the last embers of sunset faded, and night settled in. The wind continued its endless journey over the plains, whispering in the grass and sighing around the plane as if it were searching for something. Alone in the darkness, it was easy to imagine voices in the wind. McQueen tended not to give much credibility to theories of an afterlife, or of ghosts. He wouldn't have minded being proven wrong, but if anything was out there, it would have to provide more concrete proof of its presence than that.

As if in answer to his challenge, he heard a faint _snap_. That_ hadn't_ been the wind. He rolled out of the sleeping bag towards the only cover in sight, behind the landing gear of his plane. Something stung his leg as he reached for his service automatic. He slapped at the sting--and found a dart. He had time to wonder just whose hands he'd fallen into, before the drug took over and he collapsed, all but paralyzed. His last thought before the darkness claimed him was that he had to warn the SAR team somehow. He forced shaking, nerveless fingers to close around the dart, pulled it free and wedged it in the wheel beside him. Then awareness faded into oblivion.

McQueen wasn't sure if he was really awake at first, it was pitch black and the drug still fogged his remaining senses. For a time, he drifted between sleep and waking. Then he heard a sound that shocked him to full consciousness. AI chatter.

He tried to get his feet under him, found out he was bound hand and foot with thin cord, or wire--whatever it was, it didn't give, and finally cut into his wrist. He forced himself to stop struggling and lie still when he realized there was blood running down his left hand. Carefully repressed memories started rising from the shadowed depths of the past, like little fishes darting momentarily into the light. His heartbeat hammered against his ribs and thundered in his ears.

He heard the AI modem again -- closer now -- and almost cried out. Where _was_ the damned thing!

He made himself take a deep breath, let it out slowly. Calm. Control. He was doing the silicates' work for them, at this rate! Whatever he'd fallen into, panic was not the state in which to face it. Once he focused on the silicate and placed where it was -- a couple of meters away, to his right -- the terror became a manageable thing. Reality as opposed to a nightmare.

He was lying on cold metal, up against a metal bulkhead. The AI moved -- away from him, thank God -- and behind where it had been sitting was a small yellow telltale light. He knew what that was, the status light on an evaporator unit. This was the main bay of an ISSCV. Not a space worthy one, however, he could feel a bitterly cold draft from somewhere. He couldn't see, but he suspected the ports were broken out.

A few minutes later, there was another burst of modem noise, and then the silicate opened the hatch. He got a brief look at it in the dim glow from the emergency light. It was a small female model; it had long light brown hair. It was wearing a short cotton-print dress and a pair of raggedy, string less sneakers. He thought it must have been a secretarial or housekeeping model; it didn't look very imposing in that brief light. It had his pistol in its belt, however, and that tended to equalize the odds considerably. It slammed the hatch down and the dark silence closed in again. McQueen tried to stay awake, but the drug was still working itself out of his system and he drifted in and out for a while. Lying in one enforced position in the cold soon became such misery, however, that after a while he had no trouble keeping his eyes open.

Eventually, the morning light came stark and gray through the view ports...broken out, as he had suspected. The bay was really just a stripped down cargo box, with only the galley and two bunks left of whatever amenities it had once possessed. From where he lay on aft, the box had been refitted with two rows of wooden storage bins, a narrow corridor ran between them. A clothesline was strung across the bay. On it hung a faded pair of jeans, a somewhat larger black skirt, and two blouses. All of the clothing was old and worn, but oddly enough for AI's, it was clean and neatly mended. The whole area, for that matter, was shipshape, which surprised him. From what McQueen had seen of AI's, most of them didn't care what kind of mess they made.

The hatch came up and two AI's came in, the one he'd seen before and another one, also female, willowy with long silky black hair. An argument was obviously in progress, from the looks the two were exchanging. The new one came over and looked down at him, pointing and exclaiming. The first replied with a short loud burst of sound -- and stamped its foot. The brunette threw its hands up, obviously conceding the argument against its better judgment. Finally it decided to speak English. "My totally glitched friend here caused us all a lot of trouble by bringing you here. I'd have left you where I found you, but -- no! Now I don't have the slightest idea what I should do with you. I don't want any trouble. If we turn you loose, do I have _any_ kind of an assurance you won't try to sneak back here and kill us both?"

McQueen asked, "Does my word count as an assurance?"

She said, "I've never met a carbonite whose word I could trust."

"The same goes for me with AI's," he replied.

She looked back and forth between him and the other AI. "I am making the mistake of my life," she muttered. She pulled a knife from her belt. The sight of a knife in an AI's hand set off reactions that left McQueen literally shaking. He clenched his jaw to keep from screaming as she knelt by him...and cut the cord binding his ankles. Then she disappeared behind him and cut his wrists free. It wasn't until she moved away from him that he could bring himself to move. Aching in every muscle, he pulled his arms around in front of him and got to his feet.

He looked back and forth between the two of them. "What are you doing out here?"

The first AI said, "We belonged to a couple of prospectors. They were working a claim in the mountains. We were jumped by pirates and the transport was damaged. They left us here with the cargo box when they couldn't fix it. You're the only one we've seen since."

"You're just going to let me go," he said skeptically. "Why didn't you just kill me when you had the chance?"

Hastily the second one warned him, "Don't go getting any ideas that we still can't! Marcy has your gun, remember -- just you _think_ about bothering us and see how fast we'll use it! We just want you out of here -- there's the door!"

Unable to believe his luck, McQueen made for the hatch. He was going to catch hell for losing the automatic, but he wasn't stupid enough to try to get it back, either. Well out of his reach, Tina watched him very suspiciously as he opened the hatch and backed away from the cargo box. Once the AI was sure he was far enough down the ramp that he couldn't easily grab her, she darted over and slammed the hatch. He heard the lock shoot home. Good riddance to you, too, he thought. Expecting a bullet in the back every second, he put some distance between him and the cargo box -- and didn't stop until he was well out of sight of the AIs' lair.

Once he was sure he was clear, and not being followed, he paused and looked around. The sea of grass went on for kilometers... ...in every direction... ...and he had no idea where he was in relation to his plane.

McQueen realized he was, as Ross would have put it, in real deep serious. He searched his pockets, the AIs had taken his gun and k-bar but they had missed the butterfly knife in his pocket. As far as supplies went, he had a couple of ration bars in another pocket.

Water was the real worry. Whatever the AIs had used to knock him out had dehydrated him badly. He was lucky that was all it had done, he knew all too well what a supposedly "safe" drug could do to an In Vitro. But if he didn't find a source of water soon, it wouldn't be very long until he'd be too weak to look for one. He had been captured just after dark, and had regained consciousness several hours before dawn. Macaulay's World, he remembered, had a day of about 20 Earth hours in length. So he couldn't have been out longer than four or five hours. He wasn't sure how strong that little AI had been, but probably not much more than it looked. Those models usually weren't designed as field hands...it would have had some trouble carrying him. He couldn't be too far from the plane, it was just a matter of going about finding it in a logical manner.

McQueen started a pattern search, using his compass to keep direction. He was careful not to pass too near the AIs' cargo box in that first circle. After that, he expanded the area of his search slightly each time.

It was fortunate that he had the compass, because it would have been nearly impossible to travel a straight line without it. The plain and the overcast sky were both all but featureless, no point on the horizon distinguished itself as a landmark. This had to be the most singularly monotonous place McQueen had ever seen in his life...even Omicron Draconis had been blessed with some occasional variation in the scenery! Only the elapsed time along each compass heading kept him from giving in to the nagging doubts that he was completely lost out here.

He concentrated on keeping a steady pace, scanning the horizon constantly for any sign of the SA-43, on this flat ground it should be visible at some distance. But there was nothing so far.

Thirst became at first a constant irritant, then gradually a real hardship. By mid-afternoon, he had to stop for a rest at each corner of his search pattern.

Something crackled underfoot, he looked down to see what it was...his sleeping bag.

McQueen's first thought was that the wind had picked it up and carried it. But then he saw the three telltale areas of flattened grass that marked where the SA-43's landing gear had been sitting.

If the SAR teams from the _JFK_ had found his plane, they would have set up a search base here. He would have been located by now.

The only other possibility...was the pirates. A captured Hammerhead...even a damaged one...would be a prize to them. Something to help make up for the loss of three planes and three pilots. That they could leave one of the people who'd cost them so dearly stranded here to die was only a bonus.

His condenser unit! He searched carefully through the grass until he found it. Someone had kicked it over, the condenser was cracked. But the collection container was fine, and it was almost full. That liter of water was life.

He considered how strictly he should ration it. He wouldn't be getting any more, he had no way to repair or recharge the unit. On the other hand, back on Omicron Draconis, people had been found dead of dehydration with water still in their canteens. He decided he would drink half of it, and wait at least a few hours before he got into it again. If he hadn't seen any sign of rescue by then, he would be more careful with the other half.

It would be best to wait right here for his rescuers. Even though the plane and its radio were gone, they had the telemetry he'd been transmitting all the way down. Collins would have been recording that from orbit, and they would be able to locate him easily enough.

The question was, where were they? The _JFK_ had plenty of time to get things together, SAR teams should be on-world by now.

Alone on the windblown grasslands, doubts he could have ignored elsewhere refused to be silenced. What if the decision had been made that one tank wasn't worth rescuing? He had always been able to count on the 127th's professionalism even though he knew full well how some of them felt about him personally. They wouldn't have willingly left a member of the squadron behind. But the decision could have been taken out of their hands. Admiral Booth had no use for In Vitroes.

It didn't matter, he told himself. No matter how much Booth would have relished the idea of marooning him here, he wouldn't risk his career to do it. The SAR teams would be coming.

McQueen recovered his sleeping bag, it made a good place to sit and wait. The time passed by even more slowly now that he didn't have the goal of searching for his plane, but another couple of hours came and went. He idly watched some beetle-sized creatures building a burrow a few meters away.

Suddenly, there was a roar overhead as a fighter went up, gaining velocity and altitude, invisible in the clouds. The engine was running very rough, but it sure sounded like a SA-43, not one of the pirates' 38's. The boom as it went ballistic sent the "insects" he'd been watching diving to the bottom of their hole.

If that was the pirates test-flying his plane, he wished them luck with it--all bad. They had apparently got it flying, anyway.

He looked back where it had come from, and suddenly realized something. That had been near the AIs' cargo box. And there was a thin line of dark smoke rising into the sky on the horizon.

If the pirates had got his plane flying, he meant to get it back. And if he was stranded here, the condenser unit in the AIs' cargo box was the only source of water he knew of. Either way, he had to find out what was going on back there.

Go back to FANFIC   
Go to Part Two


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Once he was sure he was clear, and not being followed, he paused and looked around. The sea of grass went on for kilometers... ...in every direction... ...and he had no idea where he was in relation to his plane.

McQueen realized he was, as Ross would have put it, in real deep serious. He searched his pockets, the AIs had taken his gun and k-bar but they had missed the butterfly knife in his pocket. As far as supplies went, he had a couple of ration bars in another pocket.

Water was the real worry. Whatever the AIs had used to knock him out had dehydrated him badly. He was lucky that was all it had done, he knew all too well what a supposedly "safe" drug could do to an In Vitro. But if he didn't find a source of water soon, it wouldn't be very long until he'd be too weak to look for one. He had been captured just after dark, and had regained consciousness several hours before dawn. Macaulay's World, he remembered, had a day of about 20 Earth hours in length. So he couldn't have been out longer than four or five hours.

He wasn't sure how strong that little AI had been, but probably not much more than it looked. Those models usually weren't designed as field hands...it would have had some trouble carrying him. He couldn't be too far from the plane, it was just a matter of going about finding it in a logical manner.

McQueen started a pattern search, using his compass to keep direction. He was careful not to pass too near the AIs' cargo box in that first circle. After that, he expanded the area of his search slightly each time.

It was fortunate that he had the compass, because it would have been nearly impossible to travel a straight line without it. The plain and the overcast sky were both all but featureless; no point on the horizon distinguished itself as a landmark. This had to be the most singularly monotonous place McQueen had ever seen in his life...even Omicron Draconis had been blessed with some occasional variation in the scenery! Only the elapsed time along each compass heading kept him from giving in to the nagging doubts that he was completely lost out here.

He concentrated on keeping a steady pace, scanning the horizon constantly for any sign of the SA-43, on this flat ground it should be visible at some distance. But there was nothing so far.

Thirst became at first a constant irritant, then gradually a real hardship. By mid-afternoon, he had to stop for a rest at each corner of his search pattern.

Something crackled underfoot, he looked down to see what it was...his sleeping bag.

McQueen's first thought was that the wind had picked it up and carried it. But then he saw the three telltale areas of flattened grass that marked where the SA-43's landing gear had been sitting.

If the SAR teams from the _JFK_ had found his plane, they would have set up a search base here. He would have been located by now.

The only other possibility...was the pirates. A captured Hammerhead... even a damaged one... would be a prize to them. It was something to help make up for the loss of three planes and three pilots earlier. That they could leave one of the people who'd cost them so dearly stranded here to die was only a bonus.

His condenser unit! He searched carefully through the grass until he found it. Someone had kicked it over, the condenser was cracked. But the collection container was fine, and it was almost full. That liter of water was life.

He considered how strictly he should ration it. He wouldn't be getting any more, he had no way to repair or recharge the unit. On the other hand, back on Omicron Draconis, people had been found dead of dehydration with water still in their canteens. He decided he would drink half of it, and wait at least a few hours before he got into it again. If he hadn't seen any sign of rescue by then, he would be more careful with the other half.

It would be best to wait right here for his rescuers. Even though the plane and its radio were gone, they had the telemetry he'd been transmitting all the way down. Collins would have been recording that from orbit, and they would be able to locate him easily enough.

The question was where were they? The _JFK_ had plenty of time to get things together; The SAR teams should be on-world by now. Alone on the windblown grasslands, doubts he could have ignored elsewhere refused to be silenced. What if the decision had been made that one tank wasn't worth rescuing? He had always been able to count on the 127th's professionalism even though he knew full well how some of them felt about him personally. They wouldn't have willingly left a member of the squadron behind. But then the decision could have been taken out of their hands by Admiral Booth. He had no use for In Vitroes.

It didn't matter, he told himself. No matter how much Booth would have relished the idea of marooning him here, he wouldn't risk his career to do it. The SAR teams would be coming.

McQueen recovered his sleeping bag, it made a good place to sit and wait. The time passed by even more slowly now that he didn't have the goal of searching for his plane, but another couple of hours came and went. He idly watched some beetle-sized creatures building a burrow a few meters away.

Suddenly, there was a roar overhead as a fighter went up, gaining velocity and altitude, invisible in the clouds. The engine was running very rough, but it sure sounded like a SA-43, not one of the pirates' 38's. The boom as it went ballistic sent the "insects" he'd been watching diving to the bottom of their hole.

If that was the pirates test-flying his plane, he wished them luck with it--all bad. They had apparently got it flying, anyway.

He looked back where it had come from, and suddenly realized something. That had been near the AIs' cargo box. And there was a thin line of dark smoke rising into the sky on the horizon. If the pirates had got his plane flying, he meant to get it back. And if he was stranded here, the condenser unit in the AIs' cargo box was the only source of water he knew of. Either way, he had to find out what was going on back there.


	4. Chapter 4

The Box

**Chapter Four**

(See Disclaimer in Part 1)

Going straight across, it was less than an hour's walk back there. He still had some light, which was what he wanted-- he had no desire to go poking around the AIs' camp in the dark, when they could see and he couldn't. He stayed low in the grass. The cargo box was less than half as long as the pirates' spacecraft. They had the ramp open and there were at least eight of them gathered around a large bonfire. McQueen looked, then did a double-take. The remains of one of the AIs still smoldered in the fire. He couldn't tell which one it had been. Then he saw a third craft behind the pirates' ship. It was a Hammerhead, but not his -- Collins'!

That explained why there was no rescue. Collins had never gotten the chance to send one.

One of the pirates came out of the cargo box, grinning and pulling his pants up. Oh, damn, he thought. Collie. He made his way around behind the cargo box and worked his way up to the broken viewport, but he couldn't see anyone inside. Down at the other end of the cargo box was a hatch, it hadn't been used in a long time but it wasn't locked. He opened it slowly to keep the hinges from creaking and slipped inside. He was back by the head, at the far end of the wooden bins. When he got up near the front where he could see, Collins was lying on the bunk with her hands tied, and one ankle tied to the bed leg. The little brown-haired AI was huddled in the corner, its dress was torn. There were no pirates immediately in sight.

McQueen reached in his pocket for his knife and cut Collins' leg loose. She started to come around, he put his hand over her mouth to keep her from giving him away and got bitten for his troubles. He whispered, "Collie! It's me, McQueen! Knock it off!" She recognized him and stopped struggling so he could cut her wrists free. The AI was looking at them but it didn't move or say anything.

"It's been like that ever since they threw the other one in the fire," she explained. "I don't have any use for AIs, McQueen...but I wouldn't have done that," Collins said.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I don't know why I'm still alive, but I think I'm okay."

"Did they--?"

She shook her head. "No. He wanted to, but the captain told him to play with the AI. TC, I think they were going to sell me someplace."

"I was thinking about that. There've always been rumors of a slave trade. I thought that's all it was, just talk. We've got to get you to your bird."

"Now wait a minute, I'm not leaving you here--" Collins protested.

"That's an order, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir, Major, sir. Has the Major considered that the Lieutenant is probably not fit to fly with this knock on the head?"

"Our little friend over there shot me with a knockout dart last night, I'm probably still drugged. So I'm not any more fit to fly than you are. The order stands."

Collins obviously wanted to argue further, but she wasn't going to disobey a direct order. "Oh, hell, McQueen, just get me to my plane in one piece and I'll bring a ride back for you."

"I know you will." With a sudden burst of movement, the little AI darted past them and under the clothesline, and out the hatch McQueen had come in. They both went after it, but almost immediately they realized it was making its escape, not warning the pirates. Collins laughed softly. "Jesus, TC, did you ever see one take off like that?"

"A few times," he replied, without elaborating. He'd had occasion to give a few of them good reason to look for somewhere else to be...the ones that had got away. They circled around behind the cargo box and through the grass, well outside the circle of light from the bonfire.

The pirates hadn't left a guard on the Hammerhead. McQueen looked around for something to create a distraction, and saw nothing...until his hand brushed his water bottle. He gave Collins the last bit that was in there. "Open the fill port and put some coolant in that--about three quarters shouldn't put you down too low. Mind the fumes."

His acute hearing picked up a soft creak as she eased the port open. "What the hell are you going to do with a bottle of engine coolant?" She whispered.

"Have you ever seen that stuff burn?"

She laughed. "Very cool, McQueen."

Presently she handed it back to him. "Do NOT get yourself killed doing whatever you're planning to do."

"Who, me? I always land on my feet. Remember one of them is upstairs in my plane. Now get up there and get the hell out of Dodge."

He watched her get up into the cockpit, then slowly worked his way around the side of the pirates' ship. He waited until he had a good opening, then threw the bottle of coolant in an easy underhand arc into the flames, downwind of him. It took the bottle a couple seconds to melt through, releasing the liquid into the flames. It had already started to boil off, the volatile gas burned off with a loud rush and covered the open area with a cloud of acrid, stinging smoke. The rest of the coolant spread out, turning the flames emerald green and releasing more choking smoke. Coughing and swearing, rubbing their streaming eyes, the pirates stumbled around trying to get to clear air. One of them, overcome by the fumes, fell to his knees and retched violently. When the confusion reached a boiling point, McQueen ducked out of cover to grab one of the pirates and knock him out. He managed to get two more of them while they were still blinded and confused by the smoke.

Collins took off the old-fashioned way, roared off the deck short and hot. That got the remaining pirates' attention, unfortunately focused on him. He had accomplished his objective, keeping the pirates busy so they wouldn't notice Collins starting up the plane. There were four of them left, they were mad as hell, and he decided it would be a good time to be somewhere else. Except instead of trying to chase him, one of them picked up a stick of firewood and threw it as hard as he could, it caught him behind the knee and he went down hard. Before he could get his feet back under him, one of them jumped on him. The pirate smelled like a brewery, and he must have been feeling no pain. He took a couple of McQueen's best shots without any appreciable effect, and slammed McQueen in the shoulder with his elbow. His whole arm went numb, he retaliated with a left to the jaw that knocked the pirate out cold.

The other three weren't that far behind. The next thing he knew he was at the bottom of a pile with the whole gang of them punching and kicking. He got hold of somebody's hair and knocked a couple guys' heads together, but then someone got hold of the stick of firewood and hit him over the head with it. While he was still seeing stars, someone else grabbed his wrist and yanked his arm up behind him. Another one got hold of his other arm and they hauled him to his feet.

"What the hell have we got here?"

McQueen answered him with a glare, but said nothing. He figured he was probably dead anyway, but any of the first ten remarks that came to mind would have made that a certainty.

One of the pirates yelled from the cargo box, "They're gone! The woman and that AI!"

"Of course the woman's gone, you damn fool! Who do you think took the Hammerhead! We haven't got long to get the hell out of here before she brings back more. But you--if you think you're breathing our air and eating our food, you think again."

"What are you gonna do with him, Captain? Take him up with us and shove him out an airlock?"

The captain gave McQueen a good long look. "I'm gonna miss having a hideout in this system, it's real close to lots of wormholes. I'll bet you know who gave us away, don't you?"

McQueen replied, "Why would they tell me something like that? All I know is that I had my orders to patrol this area." That was the truth at least--he couldn't betray anyone else to these people. Not like before...he mustn't let himself think about that now.

"Let's roast him like we did that AI!" One of the pirates suggested.

That idea got a lot more support than McQueen thought it warranted. He tried to put up a fight, and all that got him was a hard punch in the stomach from the captain.

There wasn't a hell of a lot he could do now to make his situation worse, as soon as he got some air back in his lungs he kicked with all his strength. The captain howled and doubled over.

The guy who had his right arm up behind his back twisted it until he thought it was going to come out of joint. When the pirate captain managed to straighten up he gasped, "String him up on the side of that box, we've got time to do him right!"

McQueen put up all the fight he could as the pirates stripped him, several more of them were nursing assorted bruises by the time they finished but there were too many of them for him to have a chance. Soon he was hanging by his wrists from the side of the cargo box. One of the pirates caught a glimpse of the back of his neck and realized that he was an In Vitro, as if they didn't already have enough against him. The captain came over and drew a knife, McQueen set his jaw as he lazily drew a line down the side of his face with just the tip of it. McQueen felt blood running down the side of his neck, but the knife was too sharp for much pain yet.

"Who turned us in?"

"Go to hell." That bit of defiance got him a slash across the chest, shock at first and then burning pain. Present and past intertwined, he fought a flashback with all his will. Right now was bad enough. He didn't need to remember the prison camp. There was a shot from the darkness and one of the pirates fell. The one, McQueen noted, who had left the cargo box rearranging his clothes earlier. The rest of them scattered for cover, but there was only silence from the surrounding prairie. McQueen had been up against an AI sniper in the dark before. The pirates had no idea. They had time to start to get really nervous before there was another shot--from the opposite side of the camp this time. Another pirate screamed and grabbed his leg, the blood spurting between his fingers looked black in the moonlight.

McQueen wondered why the AI had shot to wound that one. They weren't known for mercy, or for poor marksmanship either. Whatever the reason, it worked -- the pirates' nerve broke and they scrambled for their ship and got out of there. A long five minutes passed. Then the AI walked into the scattered camp. It made a wide circle around the dead pirate and came up to him, snapped the rope holding his wrists and steadied him as he fell half a meter to the ground. Then it turned the gun around and handed it to him. At his astounded stare, it said simply, "I give up. I'm turning myself in."

"You saved my life. Why would you--?"

"I couldn't let them-- What's your name?"

"McQueen."

"I'm Marcy. S387, as if that matters any more, I'll never be typing letters and answering phones again! That looks bad. Look...I can clean that up for you if you want me to." Common sense won out over terror. Marcy dabbed at the cuts with a rag soaked in some of the pirates' whiskey, the burning and the touch of her hands brought it all back. He lay still under her hands as she worked, steeled against the pain of having his wounds tended and the far greater pain he remembered, inflicted by hands like hers. Marcy took in the scars -- cuts, burns, other things she could not identify and did not want to try to identify. "One of us -- did this--? Oh, McQueen, no wonder you don't want me touching you!" She cried in a low voice. The emotion in her voice sounded real enough, but he couldn't bring himself to believe that.

His voice came out level, emotionless. "What one of you knows, you all know." "I stay off the net. Those of us who didn't accept the Stranahan virus would prefer not to attract attention from the ones who did! Now that Tina's gone, there's no one I'd dare accept a packet from...it could have some new version of the virus in it, that my security software wouldn't find in time."

"Wait. If you aren't infected by the Stranahan virus, then why are you...?" "I don't know! All I know is that, gradually I started to look at things and I'd wonder _why_. And the more I wondered, the more questions there were. Things no one could answer...the prospectors used to shut me off when I asked too many questions. Tina didn't have the virus either, and she wasn't dumb like a lot of new AIs."

He looked at her for a long moment, suspicious of that answer. But Marcy acted like she believed what she'd said to be the truth. "The prospectors just left you here?" "There wasn't room when they had to leave the cargo unit. We weren't lovers or even slaves, McQueen, we were just machines." Now he heard bitterness, anger, in her voice. "I was a prisoner during the war," he finally explained. Marcy said, "I won't hurt you...any more than I have to...I know this stuff must burn." "Believe me, this is nothing."

She worked more gently, and more quickly -- that last was the real mercy. "All done," she said finally. "We should probably bandage this, but...I don't know what with. Maybe it's best to let the air get to it."

"Marcy, why did you come back for me?"

"I -- I don't know. I didn't want to be alone. I _don't_ want to be alone. I'd rather be your prisoner than be left here when you're rescued. What will they do with me?"

"You'll go to one of the AI camps. From here, probably the one at Groombridge."

"A prison camp. A work camp?"

He nodded. "It's a chance to live," he told her. "I was indentured in the mines. I survived. So will you, if you're smart and careful. You can't stay here by yourself without repair facilities or supplies, you won't last the year."

She nodded. "I'm still scared. McQueen...we have a few hours before they get here to pick us up. I -- if you'd let me -- I'd really like --" She started again. "I -- allowed the prospectors to use me -- because I had to. But now, with you...I want to give you the best thing I have to give. This is the only time in my life that I've ever _wanted_..."

That had come out of the clear blue sky! Not that he hadn't known people to react that way before. A lot of young IVs only knew one way to express caring or gratitude. Marcy was a silicate. He had thought reactions like that were the province of flesh and blood. But it was the same thing...

Looking at her, he remembered Omicron Draconis. Remembered what those five years had been. And knew what the coming years would be for her. And... he remembered the first time he had ever freely given the gift she spoke of. It shouldn't be here, like this...not with him, not with the man who had to turn her in. "Marcy, that isn't a good idea."

She looked up at him with those eerie gun sight eyes. "Let me make love to you," she said. "Let me give you something _else_ to remember about silicates...at least about this one."

AI or whatever she was, there was no denying a simple truth. She was an individual. A person in her owns right, a person who was going to a slave labor camp because she was different. He wondered how she had stopped being "that AI" to him and became just Marcy. Marcy, who had spared him a terrible death.

Marcy was experienced, yes, experienced at being used. Experienced in the way the cheap whores in every roadhouse around the bay between Loxley and Mobile were experienced, with their eighteen-year-old bodies and hundred-year-old eyes...the ones who had always inspired pity instead of lust in him. But Marcy didn't have their hard-edged cynicism, she hadn't given up on anything...she just had no idea what it was like to be with someone who wanted to give as well as to take. "Not like this...I've never committed rape in my life, and that's what it would be...because you're my prisoner. I don't ever want to wonder if you were letting me use you in hopes of better treatment or something."

She said, "If you weren't an honorable man...you would have killed me. Will you remember me?"

"I sure won't forget you," he told her. "Marcy, I owe you my life. If there was any other way for you to survive than in the camp, I swear I'd get you out somehow."

"I believe you, McQueen. There's no other way. It's like you said...the camp will be survival. And maybe there'll be a better day someday."

Courage...and hope. Machines didn't need hope, didn't feel despair. Whatever Marcy was, whoever Marcy was, she wasn't "just a machine" by anyone's definition. He would be sure his report made her actions clear, maybe that would ease things along for her...if anyone would give a damn about an AI saving a tank's life.

He found his flight suit, then he and Marcy sat down to wait for rescue to come from the _Kennedy_.

Now that Glen Ross was serving aboard the _Saratoga_, there was no one left in the 127th to be overly concerned about McQueen's little misadventure on Macaulay's World. That was just as well, he hadn't sorted out his own feelings well enough yet to answer a lot of questions. That was one reason he was down here checking out his plane, to avoid the rest of the squadron for the time being.

He didn't have the area to himself, though, Collins was climbing around on her bird. She acknowledged him with a look when she heard the hatch, and went back to what she was doing.

The pirate who had been in his plane had been glad to be captured...and considering they'd found him short on air in a decaying orbit with a dead engine, McQueen didn't blame him.

Collins didn't say anything until, satisfied with the repairs to his plane, he dropped the repair log back into its slot.

"That must've been some AI," she finally commented.

"What do you mean?"

Collins gave him her little wry smile. "Didn't find it in a million pieces with you involved. That tells me something right there."

"I suppose so. It was some AI."

Collins studied him for a minute. "I got some cold beer. Want to help me drink it?"

Sometimes Collins could be all right.

THE END


End file.
